


love, unseen

by fallofrain



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, blame the weather, i'm so cold, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 14:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17809280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallofrain/pseuds/fallofrain
Summary: “My parents are gone,” Jamie says. “My mam first, then my da.” He lets the sentence hang there, not requesting pity, or a response even, only presented for her to take, and she acknowledges it with a nod.“It can be lonely,” she says.“Yes,” he agrees. “But not now.”“Not right now,” she says, and holds out her glass for more.Claire and Jamie and an inn in the woods. How long does it take to fall in love?





	love, unseen

 

 The car rolls into the petrol station, the engine giving off a worrying rattle as she slides it neatly into an available space. Claire takes a fortifying breath before she slides out of the car.

The wind is like a freezing slap across her face, and she blinks as all her exposed skin begins to tingle.

“Damn you, Geillis,” she mutters, as her foot slips in an icy patch. It feels uncharitable to blame a friend’s invitation to dinner on her current situation, but this is the kind of weather that allows - no, encourages - all kinds of uncharitable thoughts.

Putting petrol in her car, usually a mindless task that she can do in her sleep, becomes an ordeal. There isn’t much ice underfoot, but the wind is blowing flurries right at her face, and the wind is exploiting every weak stitch in her clothing and painting lines of cold across what seems like every nerve.

“Fuck, damn, shitting hell,” she hisses, when her fingers fumble with putting the nozzle back on its hook. There is a chuckle, and she looks up to see a tall man at the station next to her, grinning unabashedly.

“What,” she says rudely, and he only smiles more.

“I dinna mean to interrupt ye,” he says. “It sounds like that machine has done ye a great wrong.”

“It sounds like you should mind your own business,” she says, and the man only blinks, blue eyes gently amused.

“No offense meant,” he says, and takes an exaggerated step back as she stalks to the shop to pay.

  
*

  
Ten minutes later and she is back on the road, an open packet of twizzlers on the passenger’s seat and a hot (and terrible) coffee held between her thighs. She’s going slow in deference to the almost opaque fog and the snow that is slowly but surely blanketing the road in pure white. Emergency rooms will be busy today, she thinks, and slows down further.

It turns out to be a good instinct. Almost a minute later she is waved down by a policeman, huddled against his car.

“The road’s closed ahead,” he says. “They’ll clear it tomorrow.” She takes a deep breath, and another, and his face softens slightly.

“Do ye have somewhere to stay?”

“Not close,” Claire says. “I’m coming in from Aberdeen. I’ve been on the road for hours.”

“Ah, well,” he says. “There’s a bed and breakfast about a mile back. Turn left at the next rest stop ye get to and look out for a sign that says Treecastle Inn.”

“Thank you,” she says, and he nods in acknowledgement as she carefully turns the car around.

She finds the inn right where he said she would. The snow has fallen thickly enough that the buildings she can see are covered in a thick layer, a faint glow coming from the fairy lights strung on the edge of the roof.

She sits in the car for a minute, letting herself relax. It’s been a crazy day, first driving out to Geillis’ party to meet her new boyfriend, then ill-advisedly deciding to leave (or maybe not so ill-advised, considering the looks he had been shooting her). Then she had almost run out of petrol, and now she is stuck in a town she doesn’t know, and her cosy flat in Edinburgh may as well be on Mars.

Still, it’s hard to dwell when the place she’s in is so peaceful. Her car is still warm, and she lets herself drift, the muscles of her spine unknotting as she begins to unwind. It’s only when her fingers begin to tingle from cold that she forces herself out of the relative warmth of her car.

It’s only a short walk to the inn’s entrance, and she begins to regret taking her time coming inside when she sees that there isn’t anyone behind the desk. There isn’t anyone around at all, in fact.

She’s torn between curling up on one of the overstuffed chairs in the reception, wandering around for someone to help her, or simply sliding to the floor and closing her eyes, when a side door opens and a man walks out.

He’s fine-boned and trim, gold glasses perched on his nose giving him a kindly appearance, and she stares for a moment before she remembers to speak.

“Er. Hello. I was hoping you had a room available?” He smiles.

“All we have are rooms, dear,” he says. “Not many people want to holiday in a storm.” And it’s not a joke, but she laughs anyway, from relief.

“Thank God,” she says. “Can i have a room, please?”

“Of course. What may I call ye?” He’s walked behind the desk, and is rummaging around in a drawer.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “My name is Claire Beauchamp.”

“Thomas,” he says. “How long will ye be stayin’?

  
*

  
Thomas is blessedly efficient, and it only takes a few minutes to have her checked in and a room assigned.

“One of our cosiest,” he says, handing her the key, smiling as she fumbles with the chain in her still-cold hands.

“Tom,” a voice rumbles behind her. “The water pressure in my room isna great, would ye mind-”

She knows who it will be before she turns around, and she works to keep her expression neutral as she turns to face the man from the petrol station. He blinks at her, then grins.

“Fancy meetin’ ye again,” he says, casually, and she blushes.

“Oh, ye know each other?” Tom is blinking at the two of them, probably wondering why it is that she’s slowly turning the colour of a fire hydrant.

“Not well,” the man says. Now that he’s out of his winter clothes she can see that his hair is a blazing red, and longer than is strictly fashionable, curling around his ears like a child in a renaissance painting. He’s big as well as tall, towering easily over them both, but comfortable with it, leaning against the desk with an easy grace.

“No,” she squeaks, and clears her throat. “No,”she tries again, gratified that her voice is back to normal. “The storm,” she starts to explain, and then stops herself.

“Aye,” the man says. “Worst one this century.”

“I can move ye to a different room, Jamie,” Tom says. “If ye’ll give me a moment to get the keys. Miss Beauchamp, if ye wouldn’t mind waiting? Then I can take ye both up at the same time.”

She nods agreement, and spends the next few minutes admiring the artwork in the reception. It’s a lot of depictions of hunts, all very fitting for the vibe of the room. She can feel the man’s - Jamie’s gaze on her, and chooses to admire the wallpaper instead.

After an age they finally head upstairs, Thomas happily telling her all about the inn’s history as a stately home while Jamie walks on his other side. She can feel her cheeks heat - out of embarrassment, no doubt - and manages to feign a great interest in her history lesson for the time it takes to get to her room.

“Thank you,” she says, closing the door as soon as she can. She can hear the room next to her open and shut as Thomas presumably moves Jamie next door to her.

She can’t think about that now; her room is inviting and cosy, decorated in soft greens and blues with the occasional splash of colour. She hopes the water pressure in this room is good.

Thirty minutes later, she is warm and clean, toes tingling with warmth and pleasantly flushed from the heat of the shower. she’s hungry, she realises. She has just finished throwing a sweater over her pyjamas on her way to getting food when there is a knock on the door. It’s Thomas, holding a tray.

“Ye looked hungry,” he says, and waves away her thanks.

The food is a delicious meat pie and berry tart for dessert, and she once again recalls that one of the great pleasures of living alone is the ability to eat like a starving wolf without judgement.

Then the food is gone and she is now wide awake. For all the beauty of the stately home, there isn’t much to do. There isn’t a TV, and her phone is picking up signal intermittently at best. She didn’t carry a book, and all she has left is her whirring mind and the muffled sounds of her next door neighbour as he moves around. She reaches a sudden decision.

 _This is impulsive in the extreme even for you, Claire_ , a voice - stern, tired - that she imagines as an overworked guardian angel says, as she rummages around in her holdall. She pulls out the bottle of brandy that Geillis had pushed on her.

She slips on the inn’s complimentary slippers and slips out of her room, knocking on the door next to hers before she can change her mind. There’s only a second’s delay before the door swings open, and the man - Jamie - is staring down at her.

 _Serve you right if he turns out to be a murderer_ , the voice says, nastily.

“Can I help ye?” He’s looking at her quizzically, arms crossed, and she gives herself a mental shake.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For disturbing you.” The bottle seems absurdly heavy, and she shifts it to her other arm. He catches sight of it and looks at her, eyebrows cocked in question.

“We got off on somewhat of a wrong foot,” she says. “Which was partly my fault,” she adds, as his mouth opens. “My friend gave me this bottle for Christmas and I wondered if you’d like to share it.”

“Weel,” he says. “We Scots are fair serious about sticking to whiskey.”

“No!” She says. “I - ” The corners of his mouth twitch upwards.

“I was just teasing ye, lass,” he says. “As a matter of fact, I do love brandy. I’d be happy to.”

 

*

 

There is a moment where they both glance at the doorway to his room before dropping their eyes, and Jamie, red ears almost hidden by his flaming hair, suggests a library at the end of the hall.

“I ken the family,” he explains. “I know this place well.”

And soon they are seated in front of an unlit fireplace, both fighting to stop from sinking into the soft chairs. The room itself is much like her bedroom: cosy, bright colours, but with wall-to wall shelves of books.

“I haven’t introduced myself,” she says suddenly. “My name is Claire. Beauchamp.” She sticks out her hand to shake, and he clasps it gently in his. His own hand is large and warm and dry, a pleasing contrast from her own cool hands, still not quite recovered from the chill.

“Like the flu medicine?”

“Not Beecham. _Beauchamp_. Norman ancestors.” He lets go of her hand, and she wraps it speedily around the tumblers that he had fetched from the kitchen. The coolness of the glass helps to centre her thoughts again.

“My uncle and I spent a summer near Compiegne when I was sixteen,” she says. “He was an archaeologist, and he wanted to see if he could trace our family lineage back to our French side. It took months, but we managed to find a great something-or the other who fled to England because he was branded a Protestant sympathiser. We couldn’t - “ She breaks off, self-conscious. “I’m rambling a little,” she says, pushing stray coil of hair out of her face. He watches her do it, body still apart from his eyes, bright blue and watchful. She does it again, slowly, to see, and his gaze tracks her hand for a moment more before she focuses back on her face.

“Nah,” he says. “Ye spent a lot of time with yer uncle?”

“Yes,” she says. “My parents died when I was small.” It’s funny, how those words can sting even as memories of the people themselves have almost faded away. He must see it in her face, because his changes, not to pity, but to a softness that makes her want to curl up.She takes a sip instead.

“I have my uncle,” she says. “He was fantastic. Took me in immediately. Gave me a wonderful childhood. Well. Had my uncle.” She doesn’t want to bring that heaviness into this lovely room with this lovely man, but she can feel it anyway, chasing away the warmth of the brandy.

“My parents are gone,” Jamie says. “My mam first, then my da.” He lets the sentence hang there, not requesting pity, or a response even, only presented for her to take, and she acknowledges it with a nod.

“It can be lonely,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees. “But not now.”

“Not right now,” she says, and holds out her glass for more.

 

*

 

They steer to easier topics after that. It’s not difficult. Jamie makes up for his relatively contained life with storytelling skills that would put most public speakers to shame, weaving stories of a childhood in a Highlands estate named Lallybroch that seems to be half out of a children’s book.

“No,” she says.

“It’s true,” Jamie retorts, gesturing with his glass and nearly spilling the contents. “Twelve.”

“You did not eat twelve raw eggs!”

“Jenny will tell ye!” he says, and she covers the lurch in her stomach with a snort, noting that his cheeks are just the tiniest bit more flushed.

It’s so easy, to sit here, to listen, to speak. It feels like finding an old book, running a hand down its spine, pages opening on favourite passages with a touch. She shivers at the thought. He sees that, and reaches over to take her glass from her, keeping a loose grip on her hand. His fingers are large and blunt, but delicate. She can imagine how delicate.

“Claire,” he says, his accent turning her name into a purr that makes her fingers tingle. That hand will never be the same again, she thinks nonsensically, and then his fingers trace the veins on the inside of her wrist and she stops thinking momentarily.

“Yes,” she says, when he waits for an answer.

“Why did ye invite me to have a drink with ye?” His fingers smooth her hand flat, index finger tracing the lines on her palm. She swims up through the haze.

“I want to sleep with you,” she says, and has the satisfaction of feeling his fingers tremble briefly on hers. This time when he looks at her he is hungry, eyes half wild, and she has the image of him pulling her towards him right then, laying her down on the ridiculously soft chairs and…

But he doesn’t, of course. His hands still on hers.

“Aye,” he says. “I guessed that much.” His mouth quirks. “Ye’re not a verra subtle woman.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she says. “I find that subtlety can be overrated. Why did you say yes?”

“For the same reason,” he says. “And ye were holding a damn fine bottle of brandy.”

She laughs, and the tension is broken. “Jamie,” she says eventually. “Stand up.” He does, and holds himself still as she moves close enough to place a hand on his chest. It’s warm, solid, his heart’s rapid beat the only clue to what he is feeling. He smells of the inn soap and a musky cologne, and she closes her eyes as her nose touches the material of his shirt. One warm hand rests on the nape of her neck, touching but not holding her.

“I’m going to kiss ye,” he says, and she nods and leans up, balancing by moving closer to him.

They kiss, and the world tilts on its axis. They kiss and his fingers stroke the side of her neck and her knees very nearly buckle, pride and a death grip on his waist keeping her upright. They kiss, and his arm comes around her, anchoring her, sending pulses of warmth where they are pressed together.

They break apart but don’t move away, and she keeps her eyes closed.

“Oh,” she murmurs, and moves in again, greedy. He stops her with a gentle hand.

“Wait, lass,” he says. “How much have ye had to drink?”

“Less than you,” she points out. The long lines of his body are still pressed against her, and there is a small but not insignificant part of her brain that only wants to get closer, closer.

“More than was wise, maybe,” he says. “Come wi’ me?”

 

  
*

 

The inn kitchen is the most modern room she’s seen so far, dominated by stainless steel and shiny-looking equipment. She keeps her hands to herself as Jamie moves around confidently, pulling utensils and ingredients as if he cooks there every day.

“I may as well have,” he says, when she tells him this. The Gowans are old family friends, and we would come here for a few weeks every summer.” The smell of frying bacon fills the air, and she sits on the counter near his elbow to watch as he starts to assemble what looks like the beginning of a magnificent sandwich.

The kiss - and the accompanying admission - has changed the mood between them. She can sit and try to sneak pieces of lettuce when he turns away, and he tries in vain to protect his creations.

“Ye’ll ruin the proportions,” he protests, as she gobbles down the prime piece of bacon she had filched when he made the mistake of turning his back. “Do ye want to end up with nothing but plain bread?” She can only shrug, and eyes the remaining pieces, only an arms reach away.

“No,” he says. “Ye’ll have to wait and eat like a civilised person.” His hand is on her thigh, and he squeezes - unconsciously, she thinks. “I’ve spent years perfecting this recipe, and I want ye to experience it in all its glory.” Her brain has short circuited again, and she leans forward and leans her forehead against his cheek. The skin of his clavicle raises in goosebumps where she kisses it.

“Alright,” she says.

 

  
*

 

  
The sandwich is fantastic, and the tea he makes is soothing, a different kind of warmth from the alcohol. It is delicious, and she manages to communicate that between filling her face with food.

“It’s been a long day,” she says when he laughs. “I spent the afternoon picking at hors d'oeuvres.”

“No’ so filling,” he agrees, finishing his sandwich in one impressive bite. The dim light in the kitchen casts his face half in shadow, making him look half a stranger.

The temperature has dropped by the time they are done, and with it, the comfortable haze that the brandy had put over her. She is tempted to say goodnight, walk up the stairs alone, but she doesn’t. Instead she stands up and walks out of the kitchen, and he follows, footsteps light behind hers.

They’re silent all the way up the stairs, hands brushing occasionally, and she follows him into his room. When the door is closed she leans against it, relishing the feel of the cool wood on her overheated skin. Her hands toy with the bottom of her sweater.

“I can recite the alphabet backwards for you,” she says, when he gives her a doubtful look. “Or hop on one leg. If you like.” He laughs.

“It willna be necessary,” he says. He’s a couple of feet away from her, fingers looped into his jeans like an old-school cowboy. It’s oddly endearing.

“Maybe you should recite it for me,” she says, and then he is in front of her, hands buried in her hair, mouth on hers. She trembles, and it seems to pass through into him. It feels like a livewire, the charge passed back and forth between them, growing stronger and stronger, and he lets out a surprised grunt when she pushes him backwards towards the bed. He sits down and she clambers onto his lap

She doesn’t follow immediately, hands going to remove her sweater and then her top in quick succession, and large hands settle over her waist and pull her close.

“Let me,” he says, and then she is topless, and his mouth is on her, branding her skin.

She can only stand it for so long before she can’t take it, and she winds her hands through his hair, tugging to pull him away so she can pull his t shirt off, the earlier smell of cologne mixing with the scent of his skin. They both sigh when they press together, and she uses the leverage she has to push them flat onto the bed. He lets her, one hand curving around her ribs, a calloused thumb playing with her nipple, the other braced behind them, keeping their descent slow.

He holds tighter when they are flat on the bed, her on top. She moans as he kisses her neck, bristles tickling the skin, and squirms downwards hard when his other hand gropes her arse.

A sudden movement, and she is on her back, gasping as he kisses his way down her chest and stomach. He pulls away to tug at her trousers, and she sits up to do the same to him. His hands are graceful even in their haste, skimming over the skin of her thighs as he bares her legs. He pushes her back down, hips surging powerfully against hers, and she groans.

“Are ye alright?” he says, pulling back to stare at her, and she arches into him.

“Yes,” she says. “Don’t stop,” she adds, just to be safe, and he grins.

“I was hopin’ not to.”

She feels half out of her body, fingers skittering up and down his back seemingly out of her control, legs spread wide, trying to keep the friction where she wants it. She moves her hands further down, one wrapping around his muscular arse and the other sliding down, until -  
“ _A Dhia_ ,” he growls, and she uses the opportunity to push him onto his side, and then his back. His hands settle on her breasts as she strokes him gently, riding the ripple of his body as his eyes squeeze shut. Soon, his hands tighten.

“I canna take any more,” he says, and his hand winds up to her neck and brings her head down. He kisses her until she’s dizzy, and when she opens her eyes he has stood up and is pulling a condom out of his bag.

She takes the time to look, really look, at the clean lines of muscle, the smooth skin and firm bones, russet hair still curling becomingly around his face. She looks at -

His hands land on her hips, rolling her to her back, and he fits himself in between her thighs. He pauses.

“Please,” she says.

He nods, and pushes forward. She stops thinking for a while.

 

  
*

 

“Will ye stay?” His voice startles her out of her internal fidgeting. She doesn’t move from her spot on his chest, but cranes her neck upwards.

“The sun will be up in a few hours,” he says. “There’s a place I’d like to show ye.” His fingers are circling her ear, rubbing the skin just behind, and she resists the urge to purr. She can feel his heartbeat beneath her ear, picking up from its ponderous pace as she considers. His face is calm as he peers down at her, and she traces a finger down his sternum to watch the goosebumps rise.

“Not too far away, I hope,” she says.

“Nah,” he replies, and when she looks up to ask for more information, he is asleep.

 

  
*

 

  
She wakes up alone. The room is cool and bright with the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Her head feels fuzzy. Sleep won’t come back, and she sits up reluctantly.

A quick investigation shows that Jamie is in the bathroom, and she is struck with a wave of sudden self-consciousness. This isn’t her, really, and last night feels like a dream, removed from the reality of lying in a strange man’s bed, muscles sore and an aftertaste of brandy in the back of her throat.

She pulls her clothes back on and slips out of his room, stepping back into hers. It feels safer.

 

  
*

 

Another shower, until her skin is pink and sensitive, and she lays on her bed in her towel. The coverlet is soft, and it’s tempting to burrow in her room until the snow clears enough for her to go home.

_A little cowardly of you, Beauchamp._

It seems unfair that the voice that was stridently warning her of the dangers of possible red-haired serial killers is still giving her grief over this.

“It was a good time,” she says. “Fine, a great time.” This tendency to talk to herself has gotten her more than a few odd stares, but it’s comforting. Uncle Lamb had encouraged it, even.

_And that’s it, then? Back home?_

“Yes,” she says.

But she gets up anyway, and gets dressed.

 

  
*

 

  
She finds him in the kitchen, talking to a small, plump woman who is stirring something vigorously in a mixing bowl.

“Our other guest!” she says, when she sees Claire, who is backing towards the door.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she starts.

“Nonsense,” the woman says. “Normally, the kitchen is off limits, but Jamie tells me that he’s acquainted with ye. Come and sit and have a cup o’ tea. My name is Mrs. Fitzgibbons, but most people call me Mrs Fitz.”

“My name is Claire,” she says.

“If it’s all right, Mrs Fitz, we’ll take our tea in the morning room,” Jamie says. “If ye’d like,” he adds to her, and she nods.

Five minutes later, they have a tray laden with a teapot and assorted biscuits. Jamie insists on carrying it, leaving Claire to trail behind him with assurances that a full breakfast won’t be far behind.

 

*

 

  
“Ye left early,” he says.

Richly appointed is the best way to describe the morning room. It’s filled with rich reds and blues and oranges, the rugs lush under her feet. One wall is nothing but windows, looking out at what she’s sure is a stunning view when the world isn’t blanketed in snow. It’s still gorgeous, flashes of green showing here and there.

“I didn’t mean to leave you,” is what she settles on. “I needed-”

“Space, aye,” he says. “I’m sure this isna what you’d planned for yer weekend.”

“Definitely not,” she says.

“But not too disappointing, I hope,” he says, and she taps her chin, pretending to think.

“Well…” and he laughs, shaking his head.

“Ye’re mighty cruel to a man’s pride,” he says, grinning.

“I’m just keeping you humble,” she says, smiling back, but honesty compels her to say more. “Not disappointing. Surprising, yes. But that’s not a bad thing.” She can feel her cheeks pink despite herself, and takes a sip of her tea to hide it.

“No,” he agrees. “It wasna.”

 

*

 

After breakfast, he asks her to put her jacket back on.

“No’ for long,” he promises. “It’s only a short walk.” She eyes the weather outside dubiously, but does as he requests, and soon they are clomping their way through the snow at the back of the inn.

“Here,” he says, as Claire pants, out of breath from the short trek, and they turn the corner to a small building. It’s a greenhouse she sees, as he unlocks the door, and a wave of heat hits her in the face. They step in quickly, and she unbuttons her coat.

It’s bigger than she thought it would be, big enough for rows and rows of plants with walkways in between them. At least half of the plants are in bloom, and it fills the space with a heavy, earthy scent.

“It’s Mrs Fitz’s greenhouse,” he explains. “Some plants are herbs that she uses to cook, and she plants some of the flowers outside when spring comes.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says, trailing a hand carefully over a blooming orchid. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“Gardening is a hobby of mine,” she explains. “A difficult one to keep up when you live in the middle of a city.”

“I didna know,” he says. “Just a lucky guess.” He looks proud of himself for getting it right, for making her happy, and she leans forward and kisses him.

 

  
*

 

  
He has a basket under his arm, that is revealed to have a thick blanket, sparkling juice, and an assortment of finger foods.

“I canna take credit for all this,” he confesses. “Mrs Fitz did most of the work.”

The find a space where they can lay the blanket out, and eat. In the light of day, the conversation flows more toward a more concrete subjects. She tells him she’s a doctor, which earns her an impressed eyebrow raise. He’s an engineer

(Civil, he explains. “I couldna sit behind a desk all day)

and he lives in Edinburgh, which makes her heart pound, hard. He likes dogs more than cats, which doesn’t bode well. He plays rugby, which does.

“Dinna look at me like that,” he laughs, as she runs her eyes consideringly over his large frame.

And when the food is gone, he presses her into the blanket and kisses her. He seems to sense the restlessness that still lurks beneath the surface of the skin and doesn’t push it further than that for a long while. His weight on her is solid and grounding, keeping her in the present, and she can feel her mind soothing in degrees even as she starts to squirm.

He begins to move down, and her back arches. From this angle she can see the flowers even closer, splashes of colour filling her vision, deep-rose pink and violet and -

“Lift up,” he says hoarsely, and she tilts her hips so he can pull her jeans and underwear down.

He bends his head, and she moans when his mouth touches her. His hair is cool and soft between her fingers, and she grips, hard, tilting her hips again to the angle she needs. His fingers trace soothing patterns on her hipbones.

She can feel him through what feels like every nerve. One hand comes up to press against her eyes, the other digs into the thick material of the blanket. He puts his mouth right up against her and sucks, and she shrieks. He lifts his head.

“Ye’re a verra noisy woman,” he says with approval. “Make that sound again.” He lowers his head, and she does.

 

  
*

 

Later, they are dressed and working their way through the strawberries Mrs Fitz had packed.

“I have something to confess,” he says, and her stomach sinks, despite itself.

“What is it?”

“I dinna much like brandy,” he says, popping a strawberry in his mouth.” She stares.

“You drank half that bottle yourself!”

“It didna seem polite to turn ye down,” he says. “I’d seen what ye were like when ye’re fashed, and I thought it would be safer to play along.” He dodges the strawberry that she throws at his head.

“Fool,” she says.

“I dinna regret it,” he says. “Though my palate did at the time. Next time, we’ll have whiskey.” She wrinkles her nose.

“Not a huge fan of whiskey.” He shakes his head.

“Trust a Sassenach,” he says, which distracts her from her playful ire.

“What’s that? Sassenach?” He smiles in a way that tells her that she’s mispronounced the word, but explains anyway.

“An English person, someone not from here.”

“I suppose that’s accurate enough,” she says. He turns a strawberry around in his hands, before looking at her. His eyes really are very blue, she thinks, clear and direct.

“If,” he starts, and pauses. His face is calm, but she can see the pulse beating at his throat. “I would like to see ye again,” he says. “In Edinburgh. How would ye feel about that?”

It’s a simple question, but there is a promise behind it, a promise of something that she wasn’t looking for but wants suddenly, a world bright and sparkling and full, within her grasp.

“I would like that,” she says, and her voice is steady.

“That’s good,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” she replies, and smiles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a mix of me trying to find the good in the ridiculous amount of snow outside that ruined my favourite pair of boots, and a challenge I gave myself to have Claire and Jamie fall in love in a very short timespan. Let me know what you think!


End file.
